Threewild-horsehuntersmadecamponenightbesidealittlestreamintheSevierValley，fivehundredmiles，asacrowflies，fromBostil\'sFord。
Thesehuntershadapooroutfit，excepting，ofcourse，theirhorses。Theywereyoungmen，rangyinbuild，leanandhardfromlifeinthesaddle，bronzedlikeIndians，still-faced，andkeen-eyed。Twoofthemappearedtobetiredout，andlaggedatthecamp-fireduties。Whenthemeagermealwaspreparedtheysat，cross-legged，beforearaggedtarpaulin，eatinganddrinkinginsilence。
Theskyinthewestwasrosy，slowlydarkening。Thevalleyfloorbillowedaway，ridgedandcut，growinggrayandpurpleanddark。Wallsofstone，pinkwiththelastraysofthesettingsun，inclosedthevalley，stretchingawaytowardalong，low，blackmountainrange。
Theplacewaswild，beautiful，open，withsomethingnamelessthatmadethedesertdifferentfromanyothercountry。Itwas，perhaps，alonelinessofvaststretchesofvalleyandstone，cleartotheeye，evenaftersunset。Thatblackmountainrange，whichlookedcloseenoughtoridetobeforedark，wasahundredmilesdistant。
Theshadesofnightfellswiftly，anditwasdarkbythetimethehuntersfinishedthemeal。Thenthecampfirehadburnedlow。Oneofthethreedraggedbranchesofdeadcedarsandreplenishedthefire。Quicklyitflaredup，withthewhiteflameandcracklecharacteristicofdrycedar。Thenightwindhadrisen，moaningthroughthegnarled，stuntedcedarsnearby，anditblewthefragrantwood-smokeintothefacesofthetwohunters，whoseemedtootiredtomove。